


Yes Or No, But No Maybes

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Britney Spears - Freeform, Clubbing, Costume, Ethical Sluts, Fake ID, Femslash, Genderswap, Jello shot, M/M, The circumstances are dubious but the consent is not, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 03:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: I asked the amazingobjectlessonwhat to write for this prompt, and she said: "Pete is an ethical slut who struggles with the ethical part and Patrick is an unethical non-slut who wants her but thinks she can't have her because she's not slutty enough, and then they go to a gay club on Britney night, and Patrick has a fake ID, and there are Jello shots." So that's what I did. She's not even in this fandom and she basically wrote the whole story. Also, it's a genderswap AU.For the FOB Creations Challenge. May theme: Young and Menace lyrics. Prompt: Oops I did it again, I forgot what I was losing my mind about.For Bandom Bingo 2017. Prompt: genderswap.





	Yes Or No, But No Maybes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/gifts).



> Additional shout-out to the absurdly lovely [ immoral-crow ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow/pseuds/immoral_crow), who I met less than a year ago and already can't imagine how I survived without. Best beta ever, and also like, amazing friend?!
> 
> And finally, like, holy shit Britney Spears is a genius. Eternal shout-out, queen bae.

"I am totally going to get some tonight and that's a fact," Pete tells your reflection. Just watching her work the mascara wand is driving you into a fit of lust.

She's wearing a laced denim crop top that looks like it barely escaped from a 1996 Spice Girls photo shoot (god, it's _tight_ ) and DePaul sweatpants, and she makes it look like a goddamn Outfit. So much of her flat, brown stomach is exposed. The taper of her ribs into her waist, the way skin slips over her hipbones, the wings and horns and half-heart of that amazing, sinner's touchstone of a tattoo—Pete in a crop top is even harder to deal with than regular everyday Pete. That's not even starting on the, well, the boob situation. You honestly don't know how anyone expects you to cope.

Now she’s starting in with smoky gold eyeshadow. There’s an open thing of glitter on the bathroom counter, the size of which you can only call a tub. All you can think about is the girl named Lucky who’s gonna go home tonight with all that glitter smeared all over her. Just. _Fuck_.

“I don’t doubt it,” you say, hoping you sound less faint than you feel. You mean it like: because if I was even marginally more sexually experienced and showed up on your radar, we could be getting some _right now_.

Pete hears it like: you’re a big slut. Technically both are true. “For your information, I am a loose but _ethical_ woman,” she laughs. Bubblegum-scented lipstick and you’re going to lose your mind. “I have a _code_ , Pat. Which I sometimes mostly follow.”

You roll your eyes. You’ve heard all about this so-called code. It’s got a long section on consent, waxes philosophical on emotional transparency and the depths of Pete’s own heart, and then devolves into a moral ranking of sex acts that makes you blush every time she gets into it. Blushing when Pete talks about sex acts is one of the worst things about you.

As if to demonstrate her perception of you as totally asexual, Pete shimmies out of her sweatpants and starts wriggling into these shiny, boot-cut, leopard print pants that are a dead ringer for Britney’s 1999 VMA look. (You know this because Pete has told you approximately two hundred and ninety-seven times since she pulled them out of a bin at Goodwill.)

She’s all but waving her ass in your face. You’re not _sexless_ , for god’s sake. The generous roundness of her ass and muscular, soccer-playing thighs are framed to their advantage by a skimpy pink thong that really accentuates the unjust nature of the universe. Pete may not think of you as anything but her prudish, underage best friend, but listen: Pete’s ass is and always has been a transformative experience for you.

You can’t breathe until she’s safely zipped into her pants, which render her ass at least marginally less distracting. God, are you actually salivating? You could not be more of a pervert. A _predator_. You should feel worse about this. Instead all you’re thinking about is how Pete’s having sex with everyone but you.

Now Pete’s gathering her shaggy, straightened chin-length hair into little weeaboo buns, one on each side of her head, and snapping feathery-fluff hair bands around them. “How do I look?” she asks, doing a twirl. You’re basically speechless.

“Like my dream woman,” you say. Pete laughs prettily. She always thinks you’re joking. She probably assumes you’ve got Barbie doll plastic in your pants instead of a functional vagina, just because you’re younger than her and don’t wear a scarlet fucking letter around on your boobs. Does Hallmark make _I’m A Huge Lesbian and It’s All Your Fault_ cards? You aren’t burdened by any beleaguered ethical codes, really you’re not. Especially not this close to Pete. God, why does she always smell like coconut and vanilla? What outrageous things for a human woman to smell like.

“Well, I’m _supposed_ to look like late-90s vamp Britney,” Pete pouts, “right on the cusp of discovering the sexual power of her own image.” She leans close, alluring, and reaches out as if to stroke your chin. You lurch backwards like she’s Cholera Patient Zero and one touch will leave you shitting your insides out. (Really you just think you might fucking _explode_ if she touches your actual skin after that exaggerated ass-shimmy production.)

“Really, you look perfect,” you say. You fucking mean it. “You look like—you look like I want to come to the club.”

Pete’s face lights up brighter than Christmas. “ _On Britney night?_ ” she shrieks. “You _know_ this is a high fucking holy day for the gays. Oh, Pat—but they aren’t gonna let you in. It’s 21+.”

“I’m not that innocent,” you say, and fish your ace out of your jeans pocket: a fake ID, freshly minted. You’re going to prove to her you can be taken seriously, one way or another.

Pete throws her arms around your neck, capturing you in a hug faster than you can dodge it. Your face is smashed up against her glittery neck. You try not to think about how her breasts feel, pressed against yours. You try not to lick her fucking coconut-flavored neck, and take that much as a fucking triumph.

Just before you pass out, Pete grabs your shoulders and inspects you from arms’-length.

“Schoolgirl Britney,” she decides. “You were _born_ for it.”

“Born for—? Schoolgirl—?” you sputter.

Pete hits you with every incredible watt of her signature wicked grin.

“Oh, yes,” she purrs. “If baby Patty Stump is losing her club virginity to me, she’s doing it in costume.”

*

You have only one thing to say and it is this: fucking thank Christ for Jello shots. Where have they been all your life?

The club is neon, glitter, bodies. It overpoweringly smells of Lipsmackers. Britneys are everywhere, and the angelic fucking host of queers is belting out every word to every song. It’s loud enough to drown out everything, even your self-doubt. All you can feel is your own heartbeat and Pete’s hand, which you’re keeping clamped tight in yours. Some of the Toxic stewardesses going by are just— _wow_. Let’s just say you’d better keep hold of Pete if you don’t want to lose her.

Your mouth tastes sweet with strawberries from the Jello shot Pete just fed you. It’s your third one. People keep just _handing_ them to you.

“They’re gonna buy you drinks all night,” Pete yells into your ear, her lips so close they touch your cheek, her breath vibrating the inside of  your ear so your blood churns and you hear the ocean. “You’re the best Brit here!”

Here is what you saw in the mirror, before you left the house: reddish-blond pigtails, leaving your face way too exposed. Blue eyeshadow, glossy pink lips, cheeks lurid with blush, eyes sparkling blue beneath more mascara than you knew your eyelashes could support, like, structurally. Your skin pulsed and prickled with the memory of Pete working close to your face, brushing on colors, with the ghost of her fingers twining wistfully through your hair, her sigh of _I wish I was blond like you_ in your ear.

Your outfit consists of a pleated grey skirt, the shortest you’ve ever worn—you hate having your thick thighs and knobby knees exposed, and you generally only wear skirts on Easter—knee-high socks, Pete’s chunky Mary Janes, and worst of all, a white blouse knotted over your belly button. You keep tugging your grey cardigan down. A total of three fucking buttons on the shirt are fastened. Pete kept slapping your hands away when you tried to hide your pasty cleavage or conceal your love handles with forgiving fabric. She even stuck a rhinestone to your navel, the most erotic touch you have probably ever experienced. _I look like a Troll doll_ , you’d complained. _You look like 17 year old Britney fucking Spears_ , Pete had corrected. _Fuck_.

And now you’re here, out in public, dressed like _this_ , when usually you’re as indistinguishable from a boy as possible in jeans, a t-shirt, and a baseball cap. Your ass has already been pinched by _three_ strangers. Pete got up in the face of the first one, shouting, _This pure virginal ass is not for your grubby hands to defile!_ which is easily the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened in your life.

You don’t tell her the next two times it happens. You’re working out an ass-grab-to-Jello-shot ratio that will, you think, end very favorably. If your calculations are correct, soon you won’t even be able to _feel_ your ass, let alone feel creeped out or itchy about all the skin you’re showing.

You have one main objective tonight, and it’s to get Petra Louise Kingston Wentz to stop thinking of you as a “pure, virginal” piece of ass needing her protection and get her to think of you as a regular piece of ass instead. She thinks of herself as an ethical slut, you know this. But you’ve heard _endless_ stories about the way those rules have… bent in arduous circumstances. You just need to, well—create those circumstances. Uh, easy. Right?

“We dance!” Pete yells into your ear. You follow her, hands linked as you weave through a sea of Britneys of all genders, to a part of the club that has arbitrarily been declared a dance floor, thought you see no difference between this cluster of happy, drunk, gyrating queens and another other. You sing at the top of your lungs, hoping Pete takes the words to heart: “Baby don’t you wanna dance up on me, leaving behind my name, my age?” Disco balls and light machines paint the air candy-colored around you; Pete pulls you close to her and starts to dance.

Oh. _Oh_.

You’ve danced with Pete before, loads of times. At shows, in the kitchen while your pizza rolls heated up, to your favorite music videos in Pete’s basement during grade school. You even remember dancing to Britney Spears before, at some sleepover in the 1990s.

Pete’s always been older than you—five years older, to be exact—but it’s never been an issue in your friendship. Your moms hung out, so you hung out. Pete’s always seemed sincerely interested in you, has always been emotionally immature enough that the age gap didn’t feel like so much. It’s only lately—at moments like this, when, on a sweaty, throbbing dance floor, she holds your bared hips and moves her body against yours—that you feel the difference. That you wish Pete saw you like something other than a kid, a little sister.

Because you’ve been seeing Pete in new ways.

Because, while she grinds against you like this, the age gap isn’t the only thing you’re feeling. Your heart is beating so hard you can feel it in your fucking _thighs_ , to name one. They are hot and flushed and full of blood under your skirt. Oh, you want. You want.

Pete’s head is turned by a nude-lace-and-diamond Britney with an avalanche of golden curls. Pete’s head turning towards someone else is the worst thing that could happen tonight, but it does. Seriously, where are people getting these outfits? You don’t know anything about gay culture, that’s what you’re learning here tonight. Apparently all the other queers are professional fucking costumers and you’re the only asshole who’s been wasting her time with folk records and a drum kit.

“I’m gonna need to follow up on that!” Pete says into your ear, oblivious to the creeping heat inspired by the brush of her lips. Oblivious to _you_. Your neck burns, and it’s easy enough to turn lust and shame into your favorite emotion: anger.

Pet doesn’t think of you as a sexually viable option? Pete thinks you’re a blushing virgin? Pete doesn’t think you’re slutty enough for her? Pete doesn’t think of you—at all?

Fucking fine. You’ll rack up some goddamn sexual experience. Like 2001 Britney Spears, you will show the whole fucking world you’re not a sheltered child but a sexually mature _woman_ , starting with this dance floor.

You grab the nearest Britney and you motherfucking _dance_.

*

Some amount of time and also Jello shots pass without reckoning. The night blurs neon and sugar-sweet. You feel independent, sexy, empowered. This is maybe the first time you’ve ever been out at night and not afraid. You feel drunk. You feel perfectly fucking _fine_ without Pete Wentz infantilizing you and cramping your style. You feel like tonight is the perfect opportunity to hone your kissing technique with strangers so that one day you might blow Pete away.

This person you’re kissing right now in this bathroom stall—the one with the clever tongue and the nice smell and the hand in your bra, the one you met when you were dancing on the bar with no Pete in sight—they’re the human equivalent of all those yogurts you’ve eaten without spoons to develop your tongue dexterity. A training exercise. They’re probably a perfectly nice person in their own right; it’s probably a little dehumanizing to compare them to your oral sex yogurts; but fuck. It’s not like they’re in here working on their Nobel prize submission or anything.

It’s looking like you might get to practice more than just face-sucking skills with your hot new friend, and it’s one of the greatest nights of your young life, when the stall door bangs open and fucks it all up. (You really thought one of you would have locked that. Whatever. The theme of tonight is not exactly ‘discretion.’)

“Get your hands _off_ her,” someone snarls, and your make-out pal is torn away with enough force that the buttons on your blouse go with her.

“Fuck this,” your Britney says, and leaves without a fight. You’re a little hurt by this. Luckily you have other problems to distract you.

Lips raw and wet and parted, breathing hard, torn between feeling horny and angry—this is you, looking at Pete Wentz while Pete Wentz looks at you. Your shirt is all the way open, showing your bra and entire stomach, two facts about which you would normally be very self-conscious. The world is bright and smeary. The bathroom stall undulates around you.

You either need more Jello shots, or _so many_ less. You teeter on the angry edge.

“What the fuck,” she says.

Pete’s hands are on her waist, her boobs stuck out in anger. She’s scowling like she’s fearsome, but all you want to do is laugh. As if _she_ , of all people, has the high ground in matters of indiscreet liaisons with strangers! It’s ludicrous, and you decide to tell her so.

“What the fuck is that I’m drunk at a gay club on a queer holy day, and I’m fucking _celebrating_ ,” you snap. You hope Pete is impressed by the way you barely slur. “Before you even fucking start, tell me how many people you’ve kissed just since we’ve been at this club.”

Pete opens her mouth and closes it again. She slips her arms across her belly, hiding the peek-a-boo bartskull and hugging herself like otherwise she’ll come apart. She looks unaccountably sad. “Two,” she admits. “But Pat—”

“Fucking. Don’t,” you warn. The anger is coming hot and hard, burning the vodka out of your blood. You _liked_ kissing that stranger. You were having a _nice time_. “So what—is it not enough that you won’t kiss me? Do you have to make it your personal mission to ensure nobody else does either?”

“Oh, sweetie,” coos a honey-voiced drag queen from the neighboring stall, sticking her head over the partition. “Anyone would be lucky to kiss you.”

“ _Thank_ you, Britney,” you say emphatically.

“Butt out, Britney!” Pete says louder. Her lipstick has been kissed off, her eyeliner and glitter all streaked up with sweat. It is fucking ridiculous that amid all of this, yelling at you in an accessible bathroom stall, she should still be so beautiful.

“Did you just—kind of imply that you want to kiss me?” Pete asks. She is hugging herself tight, looking at you with such intentionality that you want to look away.

But you’re drunk, and Womanizer is blasting in here, and you’re the closest to naked you’ve ever been in public, and you just made it to second base with someone whose name and gender you don’t even know, and—and why _shouldn’t_ you be honest?

“You are the most exasperating human alive,” you tell her. She just keeps holding her guts in, like you’re the world’s worst stomachache. “Why do you think I’m even in here? I’m trying to get enough, like, sexual XP to be relevant to a make-out ho of your level!”

“My _what now_?”

“I just want to show up on your map!” You’re shouting now, trying to explain your deep and lusty affection in terms of MMO gameplay. To someone else this might be a sign something’d gone badly wrong but no, this is right on target for Patricia fucking Stump. Just another day in your humiliating fucking life.

Pete steps closer, reaches out and takes you by the shoulders. This is something she does to indicate she’s being serious, and/or that you’re overreacting.  God, at this distance you can smell her. It is highly fucking unfair.

“Of course you’re on my map,” she says. “Pat, you’re my true north.”

Right on cue, the song switches to 3. Screams rise to the rafters from all over the club. What sounds like an entire conga line spills shrieking into the bathroom at the worst possible moment. Someone hammers on the door to your stall, crying, “Stop having sex in there, I have to peeeeee” in a voice that sounds even drunker than yours.

You grab onto Pete’s wrists, feeling the need to indicate your seriousness back. “What does that even mean,” you say, because you’ve subsisted for years on the crumbs of this woman’s metaphors and you are beyond fucking starving for something real. _You’re the sun in the sky, you shine for me. I’m poison and you’re the antidote. You’re my Versailles at night. You get stuck in my head like the best song I’ve ever heard, the only song I’ve ever loved._ Fucking enough already. What does it mean? What does she mean? What do _you_ , to her?

“It means you’re the most important thing in my life, Pat,” she says. “I navigate by you. You’re my direction.” She says it helplessly, like she doesn’t know how to speak plainly, how to use words that make sense. This is the usual Pete Wentz problem. You want another Jello shot. You want to be dancing again, instead of feeling all this shit. You want to go home.

“What the fuck ever,” you say. You are so exhausted of this. You let go of Pete because touching her has never made a damn thing better. You break free from her grip, step wide around her, open the stall door.

You make it half a step before fists grip your cardigan from behind and slam you back against the stall partition with no pretense of gentleness. Your back is against the graffitied wall and Pete’s up in your face and the whole gaggle of blitzed Britneys around the mirror goggle at you.

“It’s not _whatever_ ,” Pete snarls at you. Her face is all twisted up, her mouth sharp, her voice jagged. “You think I don’t want to fucking kiss you?”

And before you can answer, Pete’s mouth is smashed against yours.

Oh, she kisses you hard. She kisses like she’ll lick you open from the inside out. She kisses to bruise and break and batter. She kisses with no hope of making it out alive. The heat scours you out. You open your mouth wide, wider, til you could grind each other’s molars. You are so desperate to yield to her you’d happily unhinge your jaw and let her slide inside. You kiss her panting, begging, rough and bleeding. You kiss her with your legs giving out and her body pinning yours all that’s holding you up. She holds your cardigan in one fist, pins your wrists to the stall above your head with the other, and kisses you like it’s a race to swallow each other whole.

When the kiss ends—or maybe it’s the world, you really can’t tell—you go ahead and collapse, sliding down the stall to land on your ass on the dirty bathroom floor. You’re breathing like you’re having a panic attack. Actually this doesn’t feel much different except for what’s happening in your underwear.

You stare up at Pete and she stares down at you, hot and swollen and fucking furious.

The gaggle of Britneys are applauding. “Me next, please!” one squeals. “That was hot as _fuck_!”

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Pete asks in her new ragged voice. You can’t tell if she means to kiss you more or beat the hell out of you, with that look on her face, but you realize you’re very much down for either.

You can’t even speak. You can barely manage a nod.

She offers her hand and you take it. The jolt that runs between you burns you both. She helps you stand and you leave the bathroom to a standing ovation.

*

You’ve never seen Pete Wentz less interested in a dance floor. Gripping your hand so tight your fingers tingle from vasodilation, she pulls you across the club, past the dancers and the tables and the bar, past the bouncers and out the door.

The night is so dark and quiet after the close throb of the club that it feels like the universe constricting around you, claustrophobic in spite of the open air.

You have no idea what happens next.

Pete holds your hand like she hates it specifically and pulls you through the city streets. She won’t look at you. The sloshy booze in your stomach goes increasingly sour. Your lip throbs where she split it. You don’t know how it makes you feel.

“Pete, wait,” you finally manage to croak. Your voice comes out hoarse, like the kiss broke it.

She whirls on you with a spring-wound suddenness that shows her agitation more clearly than any angry silence. “Oh, now you want to talk? Now you want things to slow down? I thought you just wanted to _fuck_. Here, let’s find the nearest alley, and—”

You grab Pete’s hands to stop them tearing roughly at the fastenings of her leopard pants.

“Pete, Pete,” you say, struck not for the first time by how much it sounds like begging in your mouth, how much her name tastes like _please_. “What is even happening right now? You kiss me like you’re trying to end my life and now you’re mad at me?”

“I was _mad_ at you when I couldn’t find you at the club, when Griffin-the-bartender finally told me he thought you’d flashed everybody and then disappeared with some stranger, when I thought I was  gonna find you sexually assaulted and without kidneys in the dumpster behind the club. I was _mad_ at you when I found you with some floozy up your skirt in the fucking bathroom like you’re not 17 fucking years old. Now, Patricia, I am fucking _furious_!”

She’s yelling, her voice growing large and loud enough to echo back at you from the night. You feel yourself shrinking from it, so you puff out your chest with bravado you don’t feel and try to say something brave. “Why is it okay for you to make out with people but not okay for me?!” you yell back.

“You said you wanted me to kiss you, I fucking kissed you. I told you what you meant to me and you said it was bullshit. Do you have a fuck you want to get out of your system so you can _level up_ or are we done here?”

The best thing about yelling is how close and real the anger gets, how every time you feel pain you can warp it into more anger instead.

“Oh, fuck you!” you scream at your best friend, trying like fuck to wound. “You did _not_ tell me what I mean to you! You slung your usual bullshit riddles and smoke. It hurts too fucking much to see you eager to swap spit with everyone but me, like I’m just that unappealing, like if I was the last woman on earth you still wouldn’t—! Just fucking tell me you don’t want me if you don’t want me, because _this_? All of this? This is a shitty fucking attempt at sparing my feelings.”

Pete has her hands in her hair like her head will actually burst if she doesn’t hold it together, she’s so angry. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” she shouts. “Patricia Stump, you gigantic bitch—I’m fucking in _love_ with you!”

The breath you’d gathered in preparation for shouting back whooshes out of you. How much alcoholic Jello did you have to consume, to imagine you heard her say _that_? Because you must have imagined it. You had to. Otherwise—otherwise—

“Yeah, that’s right!” Pete yells. Her eyes are lit up like murder. Her heartache is visible on her face. How long have you been seeing, not seeing it there? “What now, Stump? Come at me, I fucking _dare_ you. You want an inaugural black eye to go with your first fuck? Huh? You want to use me for a fistfight before you offload your fucking hymen?”

That’s it, it’s too much. Even drunk in the street dressed like debauched Britney Spears, this fight has become too ridiculous for you. No matter how much safer it is to feel anger, compared to—the other thing.

“Shut your stupid mouth,” you say, and your voice is soft now, approaching tenderness, but not any less dangerous for it, “unless you’re gonna use it for kissing me.”

There’s a moment then, when the words sink in. You both realize you’re poised for a fight, hands fisted furious and bodies cocked like dueling revolvers, counting back from 10 and both prepared to bleed. The threat of violence dissipates with a few words off your tongue. The energy in the air is no less kinetic. Your bodies don’t shy away, or even soften; if anything they cant closer, the angle sharper, the collision all the more inevitable.

The intensity makes you shake. You say: “ I don’t want you because you’re the queen of deflowering or a slightly-scrupled slut. I don’t even want you because you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen and making eye contact with you makes me weak and I have heart attacks when you change your pants in front of me. I want you because you’re _you_. Because, um—you’re the first person I’ve ever fallen in love with, and I don’t want there to be a second.”

Pete blinks at you and you blink at Pete. The silence feels very fragile after all the shouting. “I can’t believe I just said all that out loud,” you say after a few moments pass.

“Let there always be Jello shots at Britney night,” Pete says, reverent as a sacrament. She moves closer to you, and then closer still, til she’s at heady, sensory overload, putting-on-your-lipstick distance. This whole night has been the most erotic of your life. Your nerves should be blown out, synapses fried insensible, but somehow they’re still so raw you can feel every shift and ripple of air she displaces with her movement.

“So, to just like, summarize,” she says, and all you can see is her lips, shiny and freshly kissed, just an inch or so from yours. “I’ve said I love you, and you’ve said you love me, and everything else was just kind of—pointless angry shouting?”

“Totally irrelevant,” you agree. “Only happened because we thought we couldn’t be kissing. Stupid, really.” You don’t trust your mouth this close to hers. You don’t dare more than whisper.

“I’m not sure what the ethics code says about screwing underage girls if it’s for love,” Pete muses. Her lips crook up in the corner, her maddening smirk. You want to kiss it out of existence.

“You have violated that code before, I know this for a _fact_ ,” you say.

The smirk hitches higher. “Then I guess—oops, I did it again,” she murmurs. And then no one’s talking anymore, because there is so much kissing to catch up on, it’s going to take you _years_ to do it all.

You could bone in the middle of the street, really you could. Your hands are all over Pete and your midriffs are touching and god, god, there’s not a second to spare, and she backs you up against a parking meter and you’d be happy to get arrested for public indecency for the sake of this mouth, this moment. You’re hot as a headache, reality is a fever dream, and Pete pants against your neck, “Bed, I need you in a bed,” and you die right then. You’re just so happy. 

True to form, by Pete you let yourself be led. She summons an Uber while you hatch saucy plans for what you can get away with in its dark backseat—maybe there’s something to be said for wearing skirts after all. You keep firm possession of her hand; you plan to never let go again. As soon as her phone is out of her face, you’re back in it. Stopping this kiss is the last thing you want to do—there is a long, long list of things you want to do—and you plan to make good use of the 4 minutes til the Uber gets here. You’re wetter than anything, so fucking desperate. You can’t believe you’re doing this on a public street, can’t believe you’re going to stop even long enough to get to Pete’s apartment. Can’t believe this is happening at all. You’re gonna have a hangover from vodka and lust; you hope, hope, hope to outrun it, to stay up all night. To make of each other a goddamn feast. 

“Next time,” you tell Pete, making your best attempt to crawl into her skin, “you’re red vinyl bodysuit Britney.” 

“And you’re wearing a fucking boa constrictor,” Pete agrees. She bites your lip. You lose your mind. Her hand is on your thigh and yours is on her zipper and there’s no telling what will happen next. 

Honestly, the Uber gets there just in time. You fall into the backseat together. The driver might as well not exist. The rest of the world might as well not exist. _I see who you are with the lights out. We’re better just skin to skin._

“Pat. Pat,” Pete mumbles into your mouth. Seatbelt laws and voyeuristic drivers be damned: you’re never getting off this woman’s lap again. “You’re—this is. I’ve wanted—” 

But you’ve had enough emotions about Pete Wentz for one night. You want _feelings_ instead: texture, friction, pressure, glide. So you kiss her mouth shut and quote back Britney one last time: “You don’t gotta say it, I know that I’m worthy.” 

And maybe you’re not playing. Maybe with Pete’s hands on you, you really mean it. 

Or maybe you’d say anything, to get her to shut her and kiss you. Your Uber sails off into the night, and the only thing that matters is it’s got the two of you inside.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [From Now Until Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658040) by [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson)




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